


Blindhammer

by mangacrack



Series: Aredhel dies at childbirth AU [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canonical Character Death, First Age, Fix it (of sorts), Friendship, Gen, Maeglin deserves better, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:26:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9080350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack
Summary: When Aredhel dies at Maeglin's birth, Eöl is at loss what to do. All he knows is that he can't raise his son on his own. He heads towards Barad Eithel thinking that Fingofin at least deserves to know how his daughter died.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I've started writing the story for the Maeglin Week on tumblr. I can't promise you get one chapter each day but I'll try. It's also most likely I'm not going to be finished with it after those seven days but let's see where this goes. Have Fun.

Eöl holds the small bundle in his hands and swallows thickly. His son his sleeping soundly, exhausted from being born. Thankfully he will never have to remember the sight that is going to haunt Eöl for the rest of his life. He's sitting at the edge of the bed, his love stretched on it behind him. As long as he focuses on the mircale that is his son he can ignore the blood on his hands. It runs down his forarms down to his elbows, stains his clothing, his face. Even his hair, given how often he tried to keep the silver strands out of his sight while he worked desperately on bringing his son into the world.

"You're the only thing I've left," Eöl whispers. "Forgive me, my son. I could't save your mother."

He takes a deep breath against the rising desperation. His chest tightens and Eöl walks out of the room without looking back. Closing the door is the right thing to do and he might never open it again. Nan Elmoth will be Irisse Nolofinwiel's grave. Eöl leans against the heavy wood for a moment to collect himself. He doubts he'll ever find the strength to put his wife to proper rest because nothing Nan Elmoth can offer will be good enough for her.

"I should've let her go while there was still time," Eöl says to his newborn son. There is no on else to talk to. He has been living alone for some time.

Not even single servant is left. All fled the dark forest over time. In the end Eöl barely noticed the lack of company anymore. Every task he had to do himself kept him busy, kept him from thinking too much. Until Ardhel, the White Lady of the Noldor blasted into his life. With her bright smiles and her endless energy she pushed him, teased him when he refused to partake into her silliness.

Yet she refused to let go. Appealled to his pride, challened him again and again. More than once he lost when they spared together. His wife has always been stronger than him, Eöl realized quickly. Brighter. He basked in her light.

Never he could've thought that childbirth could bring her down. Not when everything worked so well, moved so smoothly that even Aredhel herself refused the thought of venturing outside of the forest to give birth among her kin. Or under the supervision of a healer. Someone with more knowledge about the matter than Eöl. Anyone at all.

Ages ago he assisted the women in his tribe while they journeyed West. But centuries passed since then.

Eöl lets out a sob. On his left they prepared a room for their child, Ardhel proofing that she's indeed a Noldo and very skilled with wood carving. They made plans, togther. Dreamed of the future.

Now it's all gone.

His beloved wife died in a pool of blood because Eöl didn't know where the blood came from. In the end she didn't even respond to his calls anymore. Fearing for his child's life he bascially cut his son out of his mother's cold womb.

Lost, Eöl wanders outside. He needs to get out of the house. It feel like a grave and when he takes a moment to look back in Eöl settles the deep rooted convinction that he's never going to return. For the shake of his son of his son.

With a sigh and a spell on his lips Eöl seals the doors. Trees groan as they move, roots rise from the ground and hide what has been his sanctuary in the last thousand years.  
Now it will be a resting place for his wife.

"Farewell, my love," Eöl says and sheds a single tear. "I hope your tales are true and you'll be reborn in the holy land beyond the sea."

Then he takes his horse and leaves Nan Elmoth, Lómion safely strapped to his chest.

 

-

 

Despite his spontanous descision Eöl is prepared for the long, hard journey. At least he thinks so. Stepping out of the familiar shadows of the trees into the starlight isn't easy and the sun even more unfamiliar. But Lómion stirs and reminds him that Nan Elmoth is no place for a child. Unsafe and now full of death. His grief would quickly turn into anger, resentment even.  
Eöl knows the only wise act it to bring his son to his kin. Aredhel spoke often of the loss they suffered over the years and the Noldo will know what to do with a newborn. Unlike him who rarely came in contact with one, even on the great journey before his tribe split apart and went seperate ways.

Yet the first difficulties arise just a few steps behind the border of his realm. Where to turn?

Left lies Doriath, his own kin. But he doesn't wish to face Thingol. He hates him and his kingdom more than he resents the Noldor settling in Beleriand. Besides it questionable how well his son would be received among the Sindar. Already Lómion sprouds black hair and possesses a darker shade of skin. Even if he never breathes the name of the mother everyone can guess that his child a of mixed blood.

Shaking his head Eöl decides against turning to the source of help he knows best.

But the thought of asking the Sons of Fëanor leaves him uncomfortable as well. Having Curufin as competition so close to his doors never sat well with him but what bothers Eöl more is meeting Celegorm. Aredhel spoke often of him, confessed the young and wild love their shared before the feelings turned into a strong friendship.

Can leave Lómion with him? A potenial rival?

Eöl doesn't know how he would react if he had to raise his beloved's child, sired by another man.

Beside that the Sons of Fëanor are not his wife's closest kin. Close to heart maybe but the infamous rift between the Houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin even reached his ears.  
Eöl refuses to risk it and manages to cross Himlad nearly unseen.

The screams she let out during the birth of his wife haunt his mind.

 

-

 

  
The question what to feed his son solves itself. Perhaps Nan Elmoth senses that Eöl will never return for two days after he steps out into the sun a single she-wolf turns up. Eöl has seen her before and knows her not to be in leage with Sauron's packs. She trails after him, clearly intend on following and when Lómion cries the first time because he's hungry the she-wolf offers her own milk.

Eöl accepts the gift and doesn't question where it comes from.

This way they make their way West for that's the only direction Eöl has in terms of finding his wife's kin. He doubts that he will ever find the hidden city, can effort to search for it with autumm approaching quickly. Not with the life of his son depending on it.

Eöl does his best to nurse Lómions spirit - the name Eöl decided on shortly after his decision to offer his child a better life. If his son is to be raised among the Noldor he should at least have a connection to his parents. Lómion - twighlight - shall forever be a symbol for the union between Ardhel and him, short and beautiful as it was it fits his son perfectly.

 

-

 

Hunger gnaws at Eöl. Though he can't tell if it Lómion's or his own. Perhaps it's just the desperation, the grief finally making itself known. Eöl holds on. He can't break down down. The first settlement of the Noldor is still weeks away. So he sings to his son. Tells him of the Great Journey, the beauty of Beleriand they countered. Sings him the tales of the stars, speaks of Tauron the great hunter.

For Eöl suspects he'll not have long to teach his son those things himself. Right now his son keeps him alive. Keeps him upright. But who knows how long. Already Eöl can feel the strain, the drag and pull in his soul.

If it weren't for Lómion, he'd have followed Aredhel. Slowly faded into nothingness, because living in Nan Elmoth without his wife is meaningless.

  
Eöl rides westward across Beleriand and feels lost but the screams she let out during the birth of his wife haunt his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 1: Adjusting / Coping ... I'm sure that Maeglin has some adjusting to do as well but this fic is written from Eöl's point of view in large parts. At least at first.


	2. Chapter Two

The lone rider approaching Barad Eithel is quickly spotted. Early on the guards begin to speculate who has business with them. Especially since the rider had pale hair and wore clothes typical for the Nandor. A group of Elves seldom seen in these part of the Beleriand. Hithlum is large populated by the Noldor and while the Sindar welcomed trade with open arms, they prefer to live near the sea. Further south in general. Besides Barad Eithel rarely gets visitors. Those in need or interested in trade stopped at Minas Tirith which lay further south. Easier to reach for travellers, coming from Nargothroand or East where the Fëanorian's lived. Minas Tirith is brigther, full of life and laugther especially since Finduilas grew old enough to intervene in her father's politics.

What a single Nandor could want in a forshaken place like this?

"Let him in," Fingon orders when his guards alert him. "We can hardly let him stay outside. He deserves a few days of rests at least."

The guard gives a sign and the Elf rides through the gate. Someone in the yard will take care of his horse and the first moments after his arrival. Fingon takes his time to descend the steps. He can't see much from up here. He will learn soon enough if their guest is a just messenger or a visitor of sorts. They get those sometimes but then mainly small tribes of the Avari seeking shelter for the night.

Yet the Elf Fingon greets in the great hall looks belong to neither of the group. A little rough around the edges, with a sword at his hip that Fingon suspects is of very fine quality. Lose strands of silver-white hair tell his kinship to the Sindar. Perhaps even Doriath. Fingon thinks to recognize something of Olwë in him. But that's hardly a question for the first hour.

Someone from the kitchen brought their guest food. Just soup and a bit of bread but their guest eats it with the eagerness of a traveller who spend months on the road.

Only after their guest had their third fill and pushes the bowl away Fingon decides to introduce himself.

"Would I be disturbing you if I join you?" Fingon asks as he sits down on the bench across the Nando.

Through trail and error they learned that most Avari and Nandor are put off by the amoung of bowing and curtesy the Noldor give towards their superiors. They are far easier to talk to if the Noldor presented themselves as soldiers, warriors against Shadows of Morgoth instead of High Elves from the West.

Given how uncomfortable the ELf in front of him looks, Fingon tries to be careful.

"Go ahead," the Elf rasps. "Since I suspect you to in charge of this fortress it would be rude of me to delince."

Fingon grins sheepish.

"I hoped not to give that away too soon. Forgive me my curiosity so soon after your arrival," he says. "We can continue this tomorrow if you wish to rest first."

"Thanks I'm fine here. It's a relief to be out of the sun," the Elf says. "Besides it's your right to know who entered your realm. I'd do the same if the positions were revised."

"I'm Findekáno, Son of Nolofinwë," the Noldo says and sees the Nandor wince. Hastly he adds. "Fingon in your language, forgive me my mistake. I forgot how uncomfortable some of your folk are with Quenya."

"That's ... that's not it," the Elf croaks. His hands tremble and he pressed one against the chest. "I'm Eöl, Lord of Nan ELmoth."

Fingon's eyebrows pick up. He recognizes the name.

"You're far away from your realm, Lord Eöl. Though your name is known to us. I've seen some of the blades you sold to your kin. They're of outstanding quality. I know many smiths who would give much just to talk to you for a singe hour. Have you come to trade?"

Disbelief shines in Lord Eöl's eyes, unexpected by the praise he received.

Finally he shakes his head and drops his eyes. Fingon sees Lord Eöl swallow thickly.

"No," the Moriquendi forces out. "No, unfortuantely not. I've come because I need to talk to you father."

Eöl's expression is grave when he looks Fingon in the eyes again.

"I've news about the fate of your sister, Lord Fingon. I need to tell you what happened to her. I owe her that much."

A quiet kind of sadness fills Fingon's heart. He takes a deep breath and just focuses on accepting the grief flooding his body.

"I feared as much," he finally says after a few minutes of silence. "We long suspected her death after she disappered from the face of Earth but it'll ease our hearts to finally have confirmation."

-

In the end Eöl has to wait three full days before he tells his story. Apparently the Highking is out with a company of riders, checking the villages along the mountains and hunting orcs that breached the borders. That alone forces Eöl to respect the Noldo. More than Thingol -who has never been beyond the mountains north of his kingdom. It gives Eöl time to clear his head and go over what he wishes to tell the Highking once he's back. Thankfully Lómion is easy to tend to. Mostly he son just sleeps, either cradled against Eöl's chest or in the big bed he had been given. Lord Fingon obviously had listened closely and given him a room that wasn't as bright as he feared. Less pompous and more comfortable. One small window he could darken with a thick blanket.

Eöl slept soundly and his long journey was reason enough not to show his face beyond the meals he took together with the soldiers. Since those ignored him as well Lord Fingon had to have kept quiet about his idenity for no one bothered him beyond the usual questions and invitations to share a drink.

The upcoming meeting with the Highking made Eöl delince every time. Too much he fears what happens if he can put the glass down again.

Right now Lómion needs him.

With great care he opens Lómion's hand and put his finger inside it. Immediately his son holds on. Thanks to the milk of the she-wolf he has grown strong but he's still so small. Still needs help with everything. Though he's has grown curious. Eöl catches his son often staring, at him, at the she-wolf or at the lights flickering across the wall.

Until know Eöl has told no one of Lómion's existence. He isn't ready yet. Doesn't want to share Lómion just yet before a new life will descend on him.

Eöl feels guilty for not fighting the change harder. He should raise his son himself, find the strength to teach him on his own. But Eöl has doubts. He's barely able to look after himself. Happiness has never come easy to him and now with Ardhel's death the danger raises that he can't love Lómion like he's supposed to.

He owes it to Ardhel to make sure that their son will be happy. Will be loved unconditionally. And Eöl doesn't know if the feeling inside his chest could be labelled as such. Its too hollow for that. Not strong or bright enough.

In truth it's an effort just to smile even a bit.

-

The fateful day comes soon enough. It's rather late at night when Eöl finally meets the Highking. In part because the Noldor respected his preference for night acitvity and the Highking had wished to rest for a few hours after his return. Eöl doesn't mind. It's not like as if he has anywhere to be.

Lómion is happy where he is and Ardhel is dead no matter which corner of Beleriand Eöl runs to

For now Eöl still has his son hidden inside his cloak but unlike the oher times Lómion is awake this time. Eöl feels him kick with his tiny but strong feet and hopes his son willl remain silent until the hardest part is over.

The meeting isn't going to be easy, confessing to the Highking that his daugther is dead. Though at least Fingolfin proves to be a good politician. Rather than summoning Eöl to something akin to a throne room - so far Eöl hasn't discovered one, they meetup in a small but comfortable study. It looks messy. Everywhere are maps, papers and books. Obviously that this is the place where Fingolfin is planning every step of the war he's fighting.

Of course Fingon if present as well.

"Lord Eöl, at first I wish to thank you for undertaking that long and dangerous journey," Fingolfin says to Eöl. The fact that he's speaking in flawless Sindarin and greets him like equals do, endears him even further to Eöl. "Whatever you've to say, finally I'll learn the truth and lay the nightmares to rest. Often I've dreamed abou the unknown fate of my daughter."

Eöl's heart throbbs in sympathy.

It's not a great difficulty to guess what Fingolfin is talking about.

"Let me ease your worries," Eöl states in a low voice. The words come surprisingly easy to him and all his careful laid out plans are forgotten. "Aredhel was never a prisoner of Angband and while it grieves me to confirm her death ... she never suffered the cruelest of fates. Nor she died through the hands of Orcs."

The emotions flickering over Fingolfin's face are difficult to describe. His daughter was an outgoing person in life, open with her emotions. Eöl welcomed her passion for he forgot over time how to read other people. Hence why he prefers the Dwarves. Gruff they might be but they are also honest and outspoken, never hiding their opinion.

Fingolfin on the other hand is like ice. Beautiful but barely moving. The only expression of his grief is the heavy breaths he's taking.

Fingon puts a hand on his father's shoulder and it stays there when the Highking mumbles to himself, "Two children dead and one disowned himself, vanishing into the mountains never to be seen again."

To his son Fingolfin says, "It's just us now, Findekáno."

"We'll prevail, father. Let us throw all our strength against Angand," Fingon answers. He looks so honest that not even Eöl doubts these words.

Instead he admires the Noldor's determination despite how their knees are buckling under the loss.

Knowing it's the right thing to do he opens his coat and loosens the knot that keeps the binding cloth together that's wrapped around his torso.

"My Lords, as sad as the news are...," Eöl says and unwrapps Lómion. "Your daughter left us with a gift before she parted from this world."

Eöl expected many things as reaction from the Highking. Anger. Joy.

But not to cover his face with his hands and let out a sob. When a table seperated them before Fingolfin is now approaching the unusual pair. The grim Sindar waits paitently for Fingolfin to come closer and Lómion is watching attentively.

The babes dark eyes meet with Fingolfin's and lets out a happy gurgle.

Tears stream down Fingolfin's face. He can't believe what he's seeing but the relationship is unmistakable. He feels it in his blood that this is Irisse's child.

"Do you wish to hold him?" Eöl asks.

"If you let me," Fingolfin answers, eyes wide with wonder.

For it's without question either that Eöl is the father of the child. They have the same alert gaze though Eöl's is darkened by grief. Later Fingolfin will ask for the details but given how young his grandson is, he can guess what happened to his daugther.

Carefully he takes the baby into his arms and warmth floods him. He haven't felt like this ever since he crossed the Helcaraxë.  
His eyes never leave the child that playfully reaches for Fingolfin's long bangs.

"What's his name," the Highking asks.

"Lómion." Eöl whispers, proud and relieved that his son finds acceptance among his Noldorin side of the family. "Lómion Iression."

A smile spreads over Nolofinwë's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin Week, Day 2: Life in Nan Elmoth / Childhood ... though _infancy_ would actually fit better in this case.


	3. Chapter Three

Eöl never makes it back to Nan Elmoth. Instead he stays in Hithlum and opens up a forge. The land is wide enough that he can live mostly undisturbed. Visitor's he gets only from paying customers which are thankfully polite, specific and always pay upfront. Never Eöl could've imaged a peaceful life among the Noldor but most have learned a craft and let him work in solitude. They respect his work which is more than he can expect from the King of Doriath.

That the King of the Noldor and his son become frequent visitors is only to be expected. Eöl doesn't begrudge them their need be a part of Lómion's life. He's all they have left of Aredhel and sometimes Eöl catches Fingolfin watching his grandson with the same shade of grief in his eyes. But he's glad that the grief never overshadows his love. The King smiles when he picks Lómion up, throws him into the air until happy squeals fill the house. He's also never shy of changing diapers or rocking his grandson to sleep when the elfling fusses around.

Eöl is thankful for hours of sleep.

The older his son gets Eöl notices how bright he truly is. Barely able to walk Eöl finds his son often outside, running over the hills, inspecting everything that comes between his tiny fingers and hollering _Ada_ whenever he finds something that's unknown to him. Eöl always interrupts his work when Lómion comes running, no matter if timing is crucial. He makes time for his son, eats with him and often goes back to work after he put his child to bed.

Often he spends at least an hour watching him sleep. Needs to guard the tiny elf that is able coax a smile out of him so often.

The first years pass in a similar routine and Lómion's gaze sharpens.

 

-

 

It's late at night and Eöl wide awake though Hithlum lays quiet. The everlasting fog dampens the sounds from outside. No bird sings and not even the wind blows through the windows as he usually does. The cold seeps through anyway. Eöl pulls the cloak tighter around him. Instead of mountains in the North and trees around his house Hithlum is an example for wide open space. Ice winds from the North often blow over the lands, bringing rain in the summer and snow in winter. It never really gets warm ... or bright.

The Noldor are creative at least. Stone masons erect huge solid building made from stone that keep the cold temperatures away and in the bigger settlements lamps hang everywhere to illuminate the realm, even when Morgoth shadow threatens to engulf entires cities. Eöl has a few of these lamps in his yard and on his front door. The shine golden and the flicker as if a fire dances inside them. Since they're made of a material Eöl hasn't been able to crack so far the inner workings of the lamps remain a mystery.

They provide some comfort since clouds often swallow the stars. Just another change Eöl barely reacts to - though before Lómion's birth he'd have cursed anything new and too Noldorin.

Small feet head towards the kitchen where Eöl sits over an interesting book written by a fellow craftsman who has some interesting ideas Eöl wishes to try out. Though Quenya is a language he still doesn't enjoy speaking but he learned it out of self-defense. Nan Elmoth lays far closer to Doriath and thanks the amount of Sindar living near the borders Sindarin dominates the daily life. Hithlum on the other hand is Noldor territory, safe for the few Teleri near the shore.

It's easier to get around speaking Quenya and thanks to his son learning two languages as once Eöl gets enough practice.

In the end it's way to keep himself busy and a good way to spend time with his son. Who now stands in the doorway, hair curly and messed from sleep. From another child Eöl would expected small eyes, a tired gaze and cute yawning. Not so with Lómion. Eöl angles his head to meet the frown with a raise eyebrow. There's a lot of intelligence behind is son's eyes, just waiting beneath the surface.

The sharp gaze helps a lot to see past the image of Aredhel.

"Do you want some warm milk?" Eöl asks his son.

The question is ignored. Instead Lómion climbs on a chair, standing on it in order to get a peak what his father is doing so late at night in the kitchen.

"What are you reading?" Lómion asks. The child pulls the book closer to decipher the content.

"The author describes various experiments where he added different materials into the molten steel heading to the next step. It's quite intruding. Especially the results. Not all can be used to make swords but softer alloys have their uses as well," Eöl answers the question honestly.

Some might say such topics are too difficult for a small child but Lómion never had a problem with that. He soaks up knowledge, watches his father in the forge and asks pointed questions when he doesn't understand something but he always tries to solve his problems alone. Eöl expected Fingolfin to speak out against the practice of letting a child handle forge tools during his last visit but the sight of his grandson with a hammer didn't even faze the Highking.

Perhaps the Noldor are truly different in this and for once Eöl approves.

"Can you read it to me?" Lómion asks, looking at his father.

His small hands are still holding the book which is a little too big for him. Not long and he would've to put it down.

"Come here," Eöl grumbles in a low voice and his son scrambles on his lap, featuring a wide grin.

Together they read six chapters of the book until the first rays of the sun break through the kitchen window. They finally stop when Lómion start to complain about cold feet.

 

-

 

They've never talked about Aredhel. His son knows he must have a mother, has deduced as much from observation but he knows his father well enough not to ask. Eöl appreciates it. A lot. Whatever curiosity burns in Lómion, he takes it elsewhere. Probably asks his uncle and his grandfather, reads books about her which isn't that difficult given that Irissë was the only Princess of the Noldor.

One day when they walk over the market his son notices the pictures of a beautiful woman in white.

News about Irissë's death have recently been spread, years after the actual death to give her son a measure of protection. It won't last forever, soon there will be questions for details and one day the Noldor will learn about Fingolfin's heir but for now they can live in peace. For Eöl is means to endure the pictures of his dead wife everywhere. Shops sell mostly white clothes, woman dress like her to honor her memory and artist build statues of her. Discomfort is a small word what goes on in Eöl's heart who has forced himself not to think of his wife ever since he settled in Hithlum.

Sometimes deep at night when he's convinced that Lómion can't hear him Eöl cries silent tears, clutches his sheet to pull them over his head while he fights the pain in his heart where his radiant lovely wife is supposed to be. Living without her is painful and Eöl fears he'll one day break under the weight.

But he has still a beautiful son who needs him.

A son with a sharp gaze who knows him far too well.

"Father, if you buy me a horse and teach me to ride than I can make these trips alone," the boy says and Eöl's heart breaks a little.

"Yes, Maeglin," he agrees. "You're old enough."

He buys the horse, teaches his son to ride and how to defend himself. Gets a servant who accompanies his son when the trip is more than a day ride away. Yet it works. Eöl retreats into his forge, makes swords for Fingolfin's soldiers which the Highking collects himself and any other assignment is handled by his son.

Who goes more often by Maeglin than Lómion after that day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter for 2016. It was an amazing one, at least for me. See you 2017 :D


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to various sources Sindar and Noldor mature differently. Where it takes Sindar 50 years, the Noldor need 100 years to be counted as adult. It's a little difficult to tell why and how children from mixed marriages are effected by this. Let's just say that Maeglin is a little smaller than his age mates. Then again, after a few hundred years the differences have even out by now ... besides I guess it's like our laws. Just because can drive, drink and vote it doesn't mean you're a full member of society yet.

 

 

When Maeglin turns fourteen Eöl realizes that he can't keep his son bound to this foreshaken empty house any longer. While the lack of company never disturbed Eöl he took notice that Maeglin never brought friends over. Oh, he had a few. Age mates in the city, the son of another smith three villages over but Eöl knew it isn't enough. Large parts of the Noldor customs are a mystery to him and while he speaks their language well enough he hasn't bothered to learn their history in detail. But Maeglin needs to know where is mother comes from. He needed to learn about his mother's culture. 

Hence why he announces the next spring that his son needs to pack a few bags. He would spend the rest of the year with his grandfather.

The following _Whohoo_ sounding through the house makes Eöl smile. His own heart might clench a little at the prospect of letting his son go but long ago he decided to do what's best for his son. He will not succumb to grief nor will he keep Maeglin for himself. The Noldor should see has well what bright and brave soul Maeglin is slowly maturing into.

 

-

 

"Grandfather," Maeglin shouts from afar and lets his horse run free the last hundred meters. "Grandfather!"

It's obvious who he means but any person present raises their head anyway just to witness how a wide grinning boy storms through the front gate. He's the image of a good natured yet excited child. Maeglin doesn't even notice how a servant takes the reigns of his horse when he jumps down, running towards Fingolfin. The Highking counts himself lucky that he chose to spend the day outside otherwise Lómion would've announced the truth to entire world. Yet it's a badly kept secret anyway who the boy truly is.

Most of the people present are old friends, knights and servants who have known him for ages. They recognize his features in Maeglin's face, recognize Irissë. There's no denying who's child Maeglin is and it makes it easier to counter the rumors. The most ridiculous claim that Lómion is his _own_ son, an aftercomer, since two of his children are dead and Turgon as good as in the eye of the public. Of course Lómion's existence hasn't gone unnoticed especially after he got older and looked a lot like his mother. Fingolfin knows that Eöl has passed on a lot to his son whom he cherishes above anything in Arda but his looks are not part of it. Where Eöl is in possession of silver hair that is found among the Sindar and marking on his body which is common among the Nandor, Maeglin's hair is raven black. Just like his eyes.

Not the common Noldorish grey but Fingolfin cares little what his grandson looks like.

Instead he wraps his hands tight around the small body as Lómion jumps into his outstretched arms.

"I missed you," is the first thing Fingolfin says when he presses his grandson against his chest. "I missed you, my little star. It warms my heart to see that you're well."

Maeglin pulls away in order to properly at his grandfather who has yet to put the boy down.

"Did you see me? Did you see? I beat Ada in the race!" Maeglin shouts and hops up and down. "I won."

Fingolfin can't stop smiling but he does put the boy down again. Slowly his grandson got too heavy to be carried around like a babe anymore. Stars, it had been just a few years ago since Eöl presented Irissë's child. Which helped a lot to get over the loss. After his daughter vanished he still hoped she would be alive somewhere. She had been, she just hadn't made her way back to him. Sometimes Fingolfin wondered why his daughter never contacted him. Never wrote. A single note would've sufficed. Yet she kept her silence. 

_Perhaps she was angry at me that I tried to contain her in Gondolin,_ Nolofinwë thinks in regret. 

He swore to himself never to make this mistake again. Maeglin he would raise differently and allowed Eöl to settle down quietly, without the trouble of dealing with a noisy court. 

"Did I just heard right?" Fingon's voice carries over the place when he stuck his head out of the door. "Is my favourite nephew back in town?" 

"Uncle Finno!" Maeglin screams, taking three steps at once to run towards his uncle. 

Fingolfin's chest nearly burst with happiness when Fingon's face light up like the Two Trees themselves as he catches Maeglin and swirls him around. It's been a long time this anyone of his family had been this relaxed. In the recent years Findekáno's frown had deepened, his open and outgoing nature slowly retreating until only a Lord and Warrior remained. Arakáno's death had been a heavy blow for all of them but Fingon especially suffered from the fallout of Turgon abandoning them.

Building Gondolin had been the best option next to returning to Valinor.

"Slander and Lies, Uncle," Fingolfin hears Maeglin insist. "I'm your only nephew." 

"Well, there's Itarillë." 

That answer Maeglin barely acknowledges with a scoff and Fingolfin chuckles as his grandson puts up an extremely haughty expression. 

"Since she never graced by presence and so far missed to congratulate me on each of my begetting days, I sincerely doubt her existence. So far as I'm concerned is Gondolin a myth." 

While Fingon roars with laughter at Maeglin's exaggerated display of aristocratic behavior the boy picked up at his last visit, Fingolfin can't help but flinch a little. There's a lot of truth in his grandson's words. Over the years Turgon became something of a joke among his people. Since no one has ever seen Gondolin the Noldor invent tales, each grander and more ridiculous than the next. It's their way of dealing with the bitterness, that a good part of their families chose to live in safety while they fight Orc's each year and suffer from the poisonous north wind. Lómion doesn't know how close to home his word hit - though Fingolfin can't deny that Eöl named his son aptly. One reason why uses the name _Maeglin_ just as often as one given in Aredhel's memory. 

Fingolfin's clings to the picture of his remaining family leaving in relative peace and happiness as his son ruffles Maeglin's hair before they lead his horse to the stables. His grandson insists that he can take care of his animal himself, unwilling to yield the responsibility to a servant. Eöl did a good job if raising his son.  

The Highking greets the Sindarin Lord with a nod when the Elf finally joins them as well, having set a far slower pace than his son. There's something in the Sindar's eyes that tells Fingolfin that change is upon them. 

 

-

 

It's a few weeks later when Eöl approaches the Noldoran in a quiet minute. His son is out with his uncle who is acting more like an older brother than a distant relative. Instead of feeling jealous Eöl is only relieved that his son is accepted among his family. Perhaps that's Finwë's legacy or just the way the Noldor are but the difference to the Sindar in Doriath is significant. Eöl remembers his own fatherless childhood where his mother struggled to kept them fed because his uncles and cousin refused to acknowledge him beyond the bare necessity. 

"Maeglin will do well among your people, Fingolfin," Eöl finally breaks the silence. 

He's no longer afraid to address the Highking with the Noldor with his name. In the end the Noldo is just as lonely as he is. Most of his family is scattered, his brothers dead or lost beyond the sea, two of his children are dead and the Fëanorian Clan too far away to be considered as friends. Allies, yes. But in the quiet hours and during lonely evenings they couldn't simply drop by to keep their lonely uncle company.

"Have you no intention of taking him back to Doriath one day?" Fingolfin asks straightforward. "He's just as much as a Sindar as he's part of the Noldor."

Neither of them can deny anymore that this is a conversation them must have. To delay the fate of the boy any longer would do neither of them much good.

Eöl shakes his head. "My relationship with my own father is extremely difficult and I'm not a well-liked guest in Thingol's house. Besides I fear that they would treat Lómion not right because he looks too much like a Noldor. Perhaps one day I'll take him for a visit but mainly I wish that you'll educate him for now on."

Staring at his hands Eöl's voice drops as he whispers. "I can no longer teach him what he needs to know. He has learned almost everything what I'm capable of passing on. The rest is a matter of experience."

"My friend, I assure you. You're not going to lose your son," Fingolfin says softly as Eöl can't keep his pain hidden any longer. "Of course he shall grow into the Prince he's supposed to be but he'll never forget you. You're his father and no one can take that away from you."

If Eöl lets out a shaky breath after that the Highking doesn't comment on it. Not even when silent tears break forth, a pain long suppressed finally coming to the surface. Instead Fingolfin gets up and embraces his son-in-law. Who shakes and sobs, clinging to Fingolfin as if no one has done so in a long time. As if he hasn't received a lot of hugs during his childhood. But Fingolfin sees the man his daughter fell in love with and comforts him as best as he can.

After that night Eöl decides to move to Lake Mithrim. Whenever his son is out with his uncle who has overtaken the duty of teaching Maeglin the ways of the Noldor, he often joins the Highking. To a glass of wine in the evening, to a dayride over the hills or in a fight against pillaging Orcs.  

The population watches two hardened and lonely Lords become friends and silently approve. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that Eöl and Fingolfin could've been good friends. They're both reserved and like their privacy yet that's exactly what they appreciate about each other. They're the type who sit side by side an entire evening, perfectly content and when they part one says Good Talk. They don't need much words to communicate. Not to mention that they friendship is good for Maeglin. This way he doesn't have to chose between his families. Of course it helps that Morgoth is ever looming in Hithlum. Back in Nan Elmoth a friendship to a Noldor would've been more difficult but Eöl learns that he cares little about Noldor practices and traditions as long as they help keep his son safe from harm. 
> 
> Otherwise ... I tried to imagine how the Noldor would react to Turgon just vanishing. There'd be a lot of had shaking and disapproval. Given how they fight against Orcs every year Turgon would quickly receive a reputation of being a coward. Especially among people who gained a _fuck the Valar_ attitude.
> 
> Otherwise: A Happy New Year for all of you.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidays are over. I doubt that I can keep up the pace I had going so far, especially with Slashly Valentine looming over my head but this story is far to much fun to write. Let's see how and when I can squeeze a chapter into my schedule. Sad thing is, once I'm back at work I can only upload on weekends.

 

Maeglin has long gotten used to the fog. In Hithlum it belongs to the scenery just as the rain. He draws his hood deeper into his face and ignores the cold seeping into his clothes. It's early morning, still dark. The sun hasn't risen yet and hence his uncle has ordered to wait for another few hours. Orcs are close by in these parts of the land and it's ill advised to travel by night. Just another reason to be watchful. With a deep breath Maeglin centers himself and stares into the darkness. He has already rest enough and is content to spend the rest of the hours leaning against a tree. 

Some of the other warrior need the sleep more than he does. Besides they can't see as well in the dark as him. A gift from his father who explained him that Nan Elmoth used to be a place where little sunlight reached the ground. Over the years the forest grew darker and he learned to see even during the night. All Elves can, to some degree. They aren't as helpless as the Race of Man but Maeglin noticed that he stands out in this regard. 

Hence why the usually takes the second watch when the sky is pitch black. That he hadn't been able to go back to sleep after that is unimportant. There's something in the air that keeps him awake. A tension between his shoulder blades that refuses to go away. 

_"Listen to your instincts, son,"_ his father always said when they trained together. _"You're a Noldor, true. But through your veins runs also the wild blood of Beleriand. Your grandmother was one of the Avari, a proud woman. Just like your mother who learned the ways from Oromë in the West."_

That heritage reminds Maeglin to be careful. To watch, to learn. To observe. 

His uncle sleeps a few arm lengths away from him. A little too soundly for his taste because Fingon is snoring softly. Which means he's done deep enough to dream. What about, Maeglin sometimes wonders. As much time as they spend together in the last decades, patrolling and hunting together, there's a sadness in his uncle's eyes that won't go away. Maeglin used to wonder if it's his mother Fingon is mourning still. Yet he discarded that notion very quickly. 

His uncle and his grandfather have never been shy about telling him stories. Thanks to them his mother isn't a stranger anymore. 

Even his father breaks the silence sometimes and when he does Maeglin drinks up every word of it. 

With great care in order not to wake him up, Maeglin pulls the blanket further over his uncle. 

"Have no fear, uncle. I'll watch your dreams," Maeglin promises and watches the rising sun color the world red. 

 

 

- 

 

"How can you be so bloody careless?" Maeglin screams and his fist connects with Fingon's chin. 

His uncle stumbles and he's caught by another warrior standing close by. That he throws Maeglin an angry look the young Lord doesn't even notice. Instead he puts his sword away and continues to vent as Fingon rubs his chin, nursing the already forming bruise. That hit hurt. A lot. He needs to stop calling his nephew _lad._ For that blow had a lot of strength behind it.

But it shouldn't be a surprise, Fingon muses. Maeglin trains often with the knights in father's court. 

A habit born from being younger. Wishing to be acknowledged for skill and not his birth status Maeglin spend many hours in the courtyard, on the back of his horse or crawling through the wild. Losing a fight against a comrade is acceptable but in true battles Maeglin became relentless. Sharp like the edge of a sword and precise as the cut of a surgeon he fought, he danced through the ranks of his enemies - often killing them without getting hit in return. 

"Lómion, nothing happened," Fingon tries calm down his nephew. "I'm fine." 

His sister's son only shakes his head in seething anger and shoves his pointed finger into Fingon's ribs. The older Noldor winces and murmurs a curse. 

"Don't think I didn't notice the last stunt you pulled," Maeglin barked. "At your age you should've more sense than to simply barge into a battle. I nearly hit you with one of my arrows and since you aren't wearing _your fucking helmet_  you would've been dead at I just reacted an heartbeat to late." 

Everyone around them is silent as Maeglin rages on and Fingon receives a severe dressing down. Well deserved, he must admits. But still, he can't help but be proud of his nephew. Like always he's dressed in dark clothes, simple but handcrafted armor. He's hair is pulled back into a simple braid in a manner which he and his father preferred, intended to be out of the way when he fought or worked in the forge.  

Fingon's heart clenches when he takes in the picture. He might be dressed completely different than Irissë who liked to wear her hair open and dressed herself in white whenever she could but in the moonlight Maeglin looks so much like his mother that it hurts more than his broken rib. 

In regard of his family Lómion has inherited his mother's spirit. Perceptive and outspoken. Soon after the family introduced Maeglin to the court it became obvious that they wouldn't have to fear for their little one. Quick-witted Lómion had never been shy to ask pointed question, demanded to be taught when someone criticized his faults and accepted no less than the best from himself. 

Maeglin grew into someone who worked hard on himself and quickly earned respect for that. Through his father's upbringing Maeglin developed a no nonsense rule. 

Especially when it comes to the safety of those he cared about. 

"Fine?" Fingon hears his nephew hiss. "We shall spar against each other soon and then you can prove to me how _fine_ you truly are." 

With these words Maeglin storms off to cool down and Fingon feels a hand patting his back. The Son of Nolofinwë groans. It was been a mistake to join Maeglin on the patrol but these days they don't see each other as often anymore. His own territories demanded his attention after he spend most of Maeglin's childhood in Mithrim. But as the young prince grew older Maeglin took over some of Fingon's duties. Guarding Hithlum in the North, for instance. Or other work that helps him understand what it means to be responsible for a large group of people. 

As far as Fingon is able to tell his nephew is doing well.

Certainly he was a better strategist and had an eye for inventions. His greatest success so far was to replace all doors of their strongholds with iron gates. A project that ensured more safety for their soldiers and gained Maeglin a lot of approval among the populace. Of course it helped that Lord Eöl supports his son whenever possible, grumbling not even once about giving away trade secrets. Instead the Sindar gained some begrudging respect since he travelled from place to place to oversee the construction himself. 

As far as the Noldor are concerned Maeglin is a blessing. Princess Irissë's last gift to them. 

Fingon just wishes his nephew had a less explosive temper. 

 

-

 

It takes three long days before Maeglin's temper cools down. Three days of long silences where Maeglin leads the company through the fog and over uneven ground and doesn't acknowledge Fingon with a single word. Everyone tries to be polite about it but the silence begins to wear on Fingon's heart. Just as he starts to get desperate because Fingon refuses to part with his nephew in anger, Lómion joins him for dinner one evening. They have reached safer regions again. Therefore a fire crackles softly a few feet away and Maeglin silently offers him a bowl with soup when he sits down next him. 

For a long while they don't say anything. The only sounds that disturb the night are mice running through the grass. 

"I didn't want to scare you," Fingon says. For he finally realized the reason for Maeglin's outbreak. "I promise that I'll be more careful next time and listen to your advice instead of running of, making my own plans." 

The bowl clatters to the ground as Lómion moves to fast, grabs his uncle's hair and pushes their foreheads together. So close up Fingon can see the emotions burning his nephews eyes. The fear to lose his uncle, one of the few close family members he has. The determination not to let him die at all cost. 

Fingon realizes that there's little what Lómion wouldn't do in service of his family. 

"Never do that again." Maeglin's words are a harsh whisper and he closes his eyes because he needs to forget the moment where his arrow sailed past his uncle. Just a little to the left and the shaft would've buried itself into Fingon's forehead. "I _can't_ lost you. I can't lose _any_ of you. Mother died in my stead. I know that's a sacrifice she would make again and again, if it means I'd live. But I don't want anyone else to die because of me." 

"Oh little one, she'd be proud of you if she could see you right now." Fingon murmurs and embraces his nephew. "Never doubt that she loves you. My sister was a great woman, open with her affections and quick in her anger. Stubborn as well. Please don't feel guilt over her death. Each and every single one of would accepted that fate in order to have you grow up safe and in happiness." 

Maeglin opens his eyes to glare at his uncle. Though he knows Fingon is right he doesn't have to like the fact. 

"I need you to live," Maeglin whispers quietly his uncle laughs at his thunderous face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally I think that Fingon has never been much of a soldier. He's good with people. Talking to them, listening to them and making compromises. He's a diplomat and he can defend himself. In that regard he made a good King. But fighting? I mean, he can. He has learned it out of sheer necessity but I think is never going to possess the same skill like Maedhros. Or Maeglin, who grew up into a strategist. It's just his kind of thing and without Gondolin's insular environment he's actually allowed to grow into the Prince he's always meant to be. 
> 
> Also, since there will be no great Iron Gate of Gondolin Maeglin and Eöl get to do something else. I think they're both responsible for a lot of new inventions and/or making old things lots of better. Maeglin also possesses the kind of driving spirit Fëanor would've approved.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little bit of family background / politics in this chapter. Just muddle through and you'll understand why. Also, there'll be no slash in this story. Blindhammer will remain Gen - regardless of the author's personal opinion.

Every time Maeglin comes to Barad Eithel it's a marvel. Hithlum he knows well enough, has seen every corner of it because his father always needs new materials for his swords and the Noldor are a creative folk who make the long journey worth the trouble. Right now Eöl visits the mines in Ered Lómin, the first mountains the host of his grandfather first saw after so many years on the ice. A cold and harsh place but good iron is hard to come by in Western Beleriand. In such times his father bemoans the fact that the Khazad live so far away from Hithlum. Maeglin has heard grand tells of these clever people and one day he'd like the meet them. 

But coming to his grandfather's fortress is an experience itself. One Maeglin will never tire of. From afar the towers rise into the sky and gleam in the morning light. 

Behind him his young knights gasp when they see the Highking's castle for the first time. Maeglin smiles under his hood. Barad Eithel isn't the most beautiful settlement. No high arches, sleek bridges or spiraling stairways. No, Barad Eithel is functional. A masterpiece of stonemasons are architectures, build form hard, heavy stones. Rock by rock until its walls grew high and solid. Not even earthquakes are able to touch the foundations when Morgoth's anger shook the earth now and then.

"I've never thought the King's home would be like this," one of Maeglin's newer knights murmurs to himself. "I've heard stories but this..."

Maeglin smiles. "I know what you mean," he says. "Barad Eithel is the picture of strength and determination. Not once Morgoth's forces have breached the walls and we're here to ensure it stays that way."

Behind him the young warriors stare in awe when they approach the gates. High and made of solid iron. Fearsome for they're black and heavy. Also the most recent addition to the Highking's captial. Aside from a few addition to the defences Barad Eithel remains strong and unchanged ever since the Noldor came to Beleriand three hundred years ago. Few of the younger soldiers realize that Barad Eithel is a joined effort, build with the Fëanorian's support before they settled East. Himring is said to be a mirror of Barad Eithel, only slightly different in it's shape for Maedhros' home was carved from the mountains. 

One day Maeglin would like to lay eyes on it, just to compare them. See if the rumors are true that both fortresses are modelled after Formenos, Fëanor's own city in Aman. 

But when Maeglin spots the two Lords waiting for him he realizes that will remain a dream for a long time. He barely finds the time to travel to Minas Tirith. Duty keeps him here and just for a selfish trip in order to meet the rest of his relatives he won't abandon those under his protection. Exchanging letters with Celebrimbor will have to be enough, for now.

"Lord Maeglin, we have awaited your arrival," one of the Lords greets him with a curt nod. He takes the reigns of his horse to let the Highking's grandson dismount. "I'd like you to join the King first hand. My brother will take care of the new knights."

"Of course, Lord Tarwë. I'll join them later," Maeglin responds.

He respects all of Fingolfin's knights no matter their background or noble status. Each has served his grandfather for centuries and Eöl made sure that he respects his elders. But Lord Laucawë who moves past Maeglin to greet the new soldiers and Lord Tarwë who turns to lead him to Fingolfin are special cases. Both are related to the King and therefore Maeglin as well. One with blond and one with black hair it took him some time to discover that Tarwë and Laucawë are Findis' children, the oldest daughter of Finwë. They're both older than their cousin yet wise enough to yield the crown to Nolofinwë when the time came.

Still, they're Maeglin's uncles and he worked hard to gain their respect.

Especially after he discovered that their own children chose to follow Turgon to Gondolin. Neither of the Lords have them seen them since. Maeglin barely knows their names. Glorfindel, Laucawë's son who mourned the loss of his aunt Elenwë - who was lost on the Helcaraxë. Idril, who's related to Maeglin over her mother's and her father's side. And Aranwë, Tarwë's son who wished to raise his newborn in safety. By now the babe has to be an adult but Maeglin doubt he would recognize Voronwë if he ever met him.

Truthfully, Maeglin doesn't know what he would do if he ever met any of his lost cousins. Even the Fëanorian's who live even further east are more tangible. 

Those are real. Maeglin often gets the read his grandfather's letters before he sends them to Maedhros, asks for his input for Fingolfin claims Maeglin as a better eye for strategy. A keener mind when it comes to inventions and additions to the defenses. Sometimes Maedhros addresses him directly, something that makes Maeglin giddy with joy. Maedhros is a legend, even among the most loyal of Nolofinwë's subjects. One memorable occasion the handwriting changed in the middle of the letter, the tone changing from polite to demanding, followed by an entire list of questions. For some of those Maeglin needed his father's help to even remotely understand what subject they addressed. 

Later they learned that Curufin had snatched the unfinished letter from his brother and seized the opportunity. Until today Maeglin doesn't have clue if Curufin ever got his questions answered for Eöl only shrugs when Maeglin asks. He suspects that his father denies any contact with the Fëanorian smith but he has caught him waiting for the messenger hawks on occasion like a love struck maiden. 

_Good for him_ , is Maeglin's only opinion to the subject. _Father needs friends and all of us benefit from the crazy ideas they challenge each other to try out._

When Tarwë finally brings him into Fingolfin's private office Maeglin realizes for the first time that his grandfather collects a lot of pictures. When he was a boy the King used them to teach him about the Noldor history. The House of Finarfin has a place, just like the Sons of Fëanor. Maeglin carefully looks around. Has he ever noticed before that Turgon hasn't a spot on the wall? An entire line is missing. As if his grandfather has cut Turgon's face from his memory because he can't stand to be reminded of such a betrayal. 

Curious, for Maeglin long suspects that the single painting near the desk pictures Fëanor himself. But he has never asked. Or rather, he tried once and never got an answer. Only a shaky breath when Fingolfin steadied himself before he closes his eyes for a moment to bury the pain again. Lómion never breached the subject again, seeing that it's the same kind of mournful look that plagues his father when Aredhel is mentioned. 

Since voices carry through the door next to them and Maeglin's uncle makes no move to interrupt the conversation, Maeglin leans against the desk. 

"Lord Tarwë. May I ask how you have been. I've a knight in my ranks who spoke of a harsh winter."

Findis' eldest son nods. "Cold enough to freeze the rivers. I haven't seen such a winter in the last two centuries but we made it through just fine. Lord Aegnor was kind enough to open his doors for our farmers. Otherwise we'd have lost much of our lifestock." 

"I'm glad to hear that," Maeglin answer. "I must admit that I spend many weeks in the forge to have the swords ready when the new knights swear their oaths next month." 

"Don't fear that you have neglected your duties, Lómion. Thanks to you many of the younger ones wish to serve the crown." Tarwë's voice drops as he frowns. "Especially those with mixed blood. I never thought much on how our politics might reflect on those with a different background." 

"I'm not doing much else than you, uncle. All I intend it to keep our kingdom save from Morgoth." 

"Your relentless determination hasn't gone unnoticed." Tarwë gifts him with one of his rare smiles. Findis' oldest is a stern, stoic man. "You might not have noticed but even experienced knights speak highly of you. You're well liked among the elders for your courtesy and the younger generation adores you." 

Maeglin only shrugs, not knowing what he's supposed to answer. All he tries is to make his family proud, live well in the memory of his mother. 

Thankfully his grandfather finally enters his office - though his flying robes and a thunderous expression on his face. 

-

Fingolfin slams the Palantír on the desk and ignores how Tarwë and Lómion flinch at the sound. Instead he closes his eyes and tries to get his anger back under control. It takes some time until he sees only blackness behind his eyelids - and not his son's apathetic expression. When he opens his eyes again the fury has subsided, settled in his gut where it turns into cold determination. Slowly Fingolfin unclenches his fists. 

"Maeglin, it's good to see you. I'm sorry if this comes a bit sudden but we need to speak about an important matter before we introduce the new knights into the ranks." Fingolfin grinds his teeth. "It may be a surprise to you but I've had just one of the few conversations Turgon grands me." 

Lómion's eyebrows pick up. Quickly his gaze travels to the round object that still sits on Fingolfin's desk. 

"I wasn't aware that my uncle is in possession of a Palantír," his grandson says. The words calm Fingolfin's soul. At least someone in the family is in possession of a sharp mind. 

"Three of the Palantír were part of compensation we received when the House of Fëanor surrendered the crown," Fingolfin answers. "They're useful but rarely I've need of them. Fingon's always at my side and Turgon doesn't answer my calls. He shuts himself off." 

Fingolfin's mouths twists into a nasty curl. "I've spoken with my son less than five times ever since he left for Gondolin. The last contact I had with him was when he deigned to inform me that he considers Irissë lost, probably dead." 

There's a sharp intake of breath and Fingolfin doesn't know if it's coming from his grandson or his older cousin. 

Thankfully Tarwë knows him well enough by now. For he speaks up and puts a hand on Maeglin's trembling shoulder. "We've been discussing this for quite some time, Lómion. Your grandfather and I have reached a decision."

"About what?" Maeglin asks carefully and glances back and forth between the Lord and his King.

Fingolfin sighs. "Since I can no longer trust Turgon to obey my commands, I'll remove him from the line of succession. Neither he nor any of his descendants will ever have claim on the throne."

Silences reigns in the office for a few minutes where Maeglin stares at his grandfather in shock.

"I'd be heir to the crown," he whispers. "After Uncle Finno, of course. Or does your family hold a claim as well, Lord Tarwë?" 

"My brother and I discussed this." Findis son shakes his head. "Our children are with Turukáno in Gondolin. We'd remain advisors for anyone who comes after Nolofinwë but for the shake of the Fëanorians alone we'd refuse the crown. Besides it's far more likely that either you or Findekáno will continue the line." 

"I don't wish to stand between Uncle Finno's children and the crown, if we're discussion theories," Maeglin responds. It's a guarded secret that Fingon is courting a Noldor woman and everyone holds their breath, waiting if its more than just a fleeting romance. 

But Fingolfin shakes his head. "No matter any child Fingon may sire, you will always be older and more experienced. You'd inherit before them. Let's just hope that's a decision you'll never have to make. But... would you object to becoming mine and Fingon's heir?"

Fingolfin wouldn't hold it against his grandson if he says no. Lending someone his support and protecting a kingdom from harm is something else entirely than ruling thousands of people. It still scares him, sometimes. To be responsible for so many lives. During the long nights alone in his bed when doubts plague him and keep him from going back to sleep, Fingolfin curses his nephew. Had Maedhros not swallowed his pride and surrendered his father's crown to him, he wouldn't have this problem right now. He could still live as Lord over his people and be content.

But no, Nelyafinwë refused to fulfill the task he was born and groomed for, leaving Fingolfin to decide what happens to crown in case he dies one day.  
When he dies one day. Not if. Fingolfin knows this no matter how much he wishes to spare his children the pain. 

"Of course I'd accept it. I'd never run away from my duties. Either as Uncle Fingon's heir or as the only one the Noldor have left to look up to." Maeglin blurts out. A little quieter he adds, "I'm just worried what father'll say. He once said I've family in Doriath. Some higher Lord I'm related to." 

"Could this cause trouble?" Tarwë looks at his cousin with a worried expression on his face. "We counted on the fact that the Sindar and the Teleri would welcome someone of mixed heritage, even if Lómion never ascends the throne. Does a Lord from Doriath factor into this?" 

"I'd make Maeglin Fingon's heir regardless of his Sindar heritage. He has earned that position on his own," Fingolfin says. "But since I had the intention that Maeglin should meet Maedhros before I announce such a decision, I might as well send Eöl with him."

Fingolfin turns his head towards his grandson who probably hasn't truly grasped the fate yet that hangs over his head now.

"Would your father agree to a such a journey?" he asks. "He doesn't have to travel further than Nan Elmoth. I won't force him to set foot onto Fëanorian territory." 

Maeglin nods. "I'll tell him that I wish to visit mother's grave. Now that I'm old enough he won't refuse and is likely to accompany. Especially since he wished to visit the Khazad again for some time now. Arranging a meeting with Curufin at least won't be that difficult." 

"Okay," Fingolfin breathes out. 

His grandson looks excited and eager to make the journey. Fingolfin only mourns the fact that it's necessary at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, lots of politics in this chapter. I hope the relation between Fingolfin and Tarwë are clear enough. That Glorfindel is related to the Line and Finwë and Elenwë isn't exactly a secret. It's just funny in retrospect that's Turgon who marries a cousin but that's unavoidable among nobles. Otherwise ... we never know how Fingolfin thought about Turgon abandoning him. Putting Maeglin in the line of succession before him is just a reasonable decision.
> 
> Especially if we consider that Gil-galad is Orodreth's son in some versions of the Silmarillion. Which means that Fingon'd have rather named his ... urgs, great-grand-nephew King of the Noldor than his own brother. I guess Turgon just assumed the title would go to him after the Nirnaeth Arnodiad. For him it didn't make a difference in his bloody secluded city. But imagine Idril's surprise when she met Gil-galad and finds out that she had little to no social standing among the other Noldor. 
> 
> Maeglin on the other hand ... he grew up in an entire different world. He always knew that he'd serve the Noldor in one way or another, crown or not. It doesn't make such a difference to him. Even if the prospect scares the wits out him. In Gondolin being Turgon's nephew meant control. Leverage. Funny how Turgon never said outright that Maeglin would become King of Gondolin in case something happens to him. Did he delay the subject in the hope Idril would produce a son before that ever became an issue? But granding Maeglin his own House among the Lords is a sign that he never truly considered worthy enough. Noble? Yes. A Lord? Yes. But King of Gondolin? Forget it. 
> 
> Gosh, one day I will write a Gondolin Story. For the excessive amount of politics alone. 
> 
> ~
> 
> Below is a little chart how Maeglin is related the character's I mentioned. If my research rings true than Tarwë and Laucawë are Maeglin's first cousins once removed and Glorfindel a second cousin. Findis would be his grand-aunt. I'll just stick to the term cousin. Everything else is just too confusing. 
> 
> Findis & Noldor Husband ->  
> Tarwë -> Aranwë & Sindar Woman of the Falas -> Voronwë (born in Beleriand, Nevrast)  
> Elenwë & Turgon -> Idril  
> Laucawë -> Glorfindel (aka Laurefindil)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /Morlinna/ - Sind. black + to sing .... sounds better than the usual -linde ending.

In the end it takes three years before father and son go on their journey. The trip is carefully planned and the Highking exchanges letters with Maedhros every months - who intends to have all his brothers in one place when Maeglin finally visits. This might the only opportunity Maeglin will get to meet the Fëanorians while they wage war against Morgoth, so he doesn't mind waiting. Besides Eöl is glad for the delay since Curufin promised to talk to the dwarves. Either invite them to Himlad as well or at least get the other smith the materials he's hard pressed to find in Hithlum. Eöl might not say outright but Maeglin knows he's thankful for the support. As much as they both would like to visit Nogord and Belegost, see the cities of the Khazad, it's a fantasy. Six weeks alone are necessary to reach Nan Elmoth, not counting the way back and the time they're going to spend there. 

Thankfully grandfather somehow pulled of the miracle that Maeglin has an entire year before he's expected to take up his duties again.

"You deserve a break, Lómion," had been his words. "You've done so much for our people and there's a lot of Beleriand you have never seen before. I won't take that away from you. Your mother'd never forgive if I cage you up here in Hithlum just because of your safety."

Maeglin's heart nearly breaks when he sees that Fingolfin is just as fearful for Eöl as he is for his grandson. The Highking embraces his son-in-law in front of the entire court and holds on with a fierce grip that shakes Eöl more than he lets on. But Maeglin can see that he's touched by the honest gesture. Together they ride, just with a small company tagging along. A few warriors, a healer and merchants and smiths who want to make use of the opportunity to trade with the Fëanorians.

Which is the reason why they're taking the long way and travel from Mithrim to the Forest of Brethil first instead of heading east from Barad Eithel to meet up with the Sons of Finarfin. But due the last winter much of Dorthonion is either still covered in snow or the roads are impassable thanks to the snowmelt, fallen trees or frozen rivers. Maeglin doesn't mind the detour. Trips to Minas Tirith he can do alone, has done so in the past when Orodreth needed his advice. Angrod and Aegnor he sees just as often - as long as the weather and the orc population permit it. 

"Is it really necessary that we need to spend so much time among the Edain?" his father asks when the company reaches the forest of Brethil. 

Once the northwestern part belonged to Doriath as well but after Melian erected her circle parts of realm were cut of, forcing the Sindar to make a choice. Some moved to Menegroth to live in safety, others packed their things and left. Especially after the Noldor arrived the remaining Sindar saw no need to camp outside of the cirdle. 

"Lady Haleth is a strong woman who deserves our respect, father," Maeglin murmurs. "They people have defended Talath Dirnen since they arrived here. We can grant them this much curtsey when they go through the trouble to guard West Beleriand for us." 

His father grumbles and doesn't speak a lot but in the few short days they camp between the forest and the river he learns to respect the Lady of the Haladin. It helps that the Lady Haleth is a strong, gruff woman who doesn't flinch at Eöl's thunderous expression and treats the company with respect by speaking flawless Sindarin. The tale of her life, how she buried her father and her twin brother impresses even Eöl. Later, when they part again Maeglin sees his father bow, acknowledging a strong woman that probably reminds him of his wife. Eöl always had a soft spot for those. In the end Eöl takes a young boy with him, promises to teach him his craft in the one year they're going to spend in Himlad. On the way back the boy'll return, armed with the knowledge how to forge better weapons for his people. For the Lady Haleth is the only person with a decent sword which was a gift from Lord Caranthir. 

Lady Haleth grands Eöl a kind, understanding smile and kisses him on the cheek. Maeglin laughs when his father blushes. 

 

-

 

Maeglin hadn't exactly been looking forward of travelling four weeks with the same scenery in front of him. Mountains on the left and a tree line on their right. For him it means boredom which he tries to fill with educating the human boy. Well, not a quite a boy. A young man, actually. Distraction enough as far as he's concerned. It could've been a long and uneventful journey if his father's mood wouldn't worsen with each day. Maeglin took notice that Eöl barely speaks anymore and glares at anyone who approaches him.

For another few days Maeglin endures his father's sour face before he decides it's enough.

Taking a bottle of wine with him he silently approaches his father. The grass bends beneath his feet. A Noldo wouldn't hear that but while Eöl doesn't move his ears twitch for a moment. Maeglin settles next to him and opens the wine, puts it directly in front of his father. The Sinda breathes deeply a few times before he takes the flask and drinks. When he puts it down again Maeglin does the same, watching out of the corner of his eye how the tension slowly seeps out of Eöl's shoulders.

"Should I apologize to anyone I offended in the last weeks?" Eöl asks.

"Not necessary," Maeglin shrugs. "Most are aware of your reclusive nature and given how close to Doriath we are they are wise enough to hold their tongues."

Eöl laughs, hollow and bitter. His eyes flicker to the forest that looms in front of him.

"I guess it's not that difficult to guess what's bothering me," he says and looks like as if he wants to hurl the bottle from here to Menegroth, deciding against it because he refused to waste a good drink.

They spend hours next to each other, huddling closer when snow starts to fall. It's not much, it's not cold enough to bother them. For Maeglin who grew up surrounded by the sea and mountains it's just another kind of getting his clothes soaked. Eöl doesn't seem to care at all. After an hour or two Eöl's mouth twitches for the first time in days. Thanks to the snow Maeglin now looks like him, hair almost completely white.

He finishes the bottle, cleaning up the last drop with his sleeve.

"You've family in Doriath," he finally says. "But you probably suspected as much. I've told you about your grandmother."

"Morlinna," Maeglin confirms her existence with a nod. He never forgets instances like this, can recite Eöl's sentence word for word when he speaks of Irissë ... or his own mother. "You said she belonged to the Moriquendi." 

Eöl nods. It had taken some time to realize the Noldor aren't trying to insult his mother's people on purpose. They just use the description for the lack of a better term. Eöl got used to it, let it slide because _dark elf_ is far kinder than what the Sindar called him behind his back.

"You should know that most of your grandmother's people once belonged to the Nelyar. I don't know much about it but quite a few refused to follow Finwë to the Land of Light. In end she barely did more than give birth to me. She stayed around for a few centuries but I always knew that she'd just leave one day."

"Do you hate her for it?" Maeglin wanted to know and turned his gaze from the dancing snow flakes to his father.

But Eöl appears relaxed. There's no underlaying tension plaguing him. Though Maeglin can't understand what it must be like to leave a child behind. Such a lack of attachment is unthinkable among the Noldor. Passionate, possessive love which has its down drawbacks. There are a lot of bastards, children born out of wedlock or from a single adventure sometimes. But while the offended party may grumble no Noldo would ever hold a grudge against the child for it. 

One reason why no one even blinked when the Highking revealed that Princess Irissë had a child with a Sinda. There had been discussions if Aredhel and Eöl could be considered married but Fingolfin solved that by welcoming Eöl into his House. 

"I made my peace with it long ago. She and my father had an affair. Something to pass the time. Maybe they even liked each other but when my father returned," Eöl spat out the word and his face darkened again,"...he didn't treat her with the respect she deserved. Denied my existence, our quite obvious relation, because he had just fallen in love."

The House of Fingolfin doesn't possess the affinity for the mind arts like the Arafinwions, most of Fingolfin's line prefer to work with their hands but Maeglin knows he's exceptional good with oswanë. Never had any problems with it. Didn't even have to learn how to properly use. It was just always there and he can slip into the minds of other with so little effort that it scares even him sometimes. Not that Maeglin has much use of it, aside from when he's working in the forge or in the field watching out for Orcs. But he wondered where it comes from, that ability. 

Not from Fingolfin's line, that's for sure. His uncle told him that neither of his parents had a talent for oswanë aside from the usual basics. 

It's only because of that, because his father is projecting, thinking so loud and clear that Maeglin can guess his other grandfather's name without Eöl having to utter a single word. 

"Are you serious?" Maeglin says, furious. But he whispers, minding his sleeping companions. "Are you telling me that he, that this fucking coward, has the nerve to be related to us?"

Rage rises in Maeglin's chest and he looks at his father, eyes begging for answers while his index finger is pointing at Doriath.

Doriath is a sore subject among the Noldor and sometimes it's difficult to tell who's more unpopular - Turgon or the King of Doriath. Turgon is a shame to the family, someone who's discussed in bars after too many cup of wine. Laughed at perhaps, at the worst but ultimately the King's son receives a tiny amount of pity. He lost his wife, disagreed with his father about Alqualondë and probably never wanted to go in the first place. 

Thingol is different. Finwë told grant tales about his his friend, the mighty King of the Tatyar. Receiving such a cold reception, so much hate from someone the Noldor had been raised to respect hit them hard. Maeglin has seen a lot of clenched fists in his life when the King of Doriath is mentioned. It took a while but the Sindar living outside of the girdle came to understand why. Especially after they saw how the Noldor threw themselves into a war against Morgoth. Worked hard to free the land of the roaming Orcs and offered them sanctuary - something they don't receive from Doriath. 

Out here they are on their own. 

In the end even the most stubborn Sindar outside of Doriath stopped spreading hate and discontent. Even if it's only because of Círdan put his foot down, saying that the blood of Alqualondë had been repayed when Fëanor freed the Falas from the Orcs laying siege to it. Without the Noldor, without Fëanor the Falas, home of the Falasthrim, wouldn't exist today. Since Círdan is the voice of authority for all those who do not wish to bow to Fingolfin, the complaints vanished quickly. Especially when the tales spread how bitter Círdan sounded while speaking the words. The shipwright still remembered that Kinslayers saved his people when his own kin refused to risk their lifes. Rumors even say that Círdan owes Lord Celegorm a personal debt and has every intention of honoring it.

All those toughs run through Maeglin's head when he tries to grasp the truth. He's always known that he's related to a lot of people, carries the blood of the Noldor, the Vanyar and the Teleri in him. But this specific side, such a possibility he never dreamed possible.

"Why?" Maeglin croaks, unbelieving. He wishes he could unhear Eöl's thoughts. Make it a suspicion against instead of a solid fact.

"Well, there's a reason why I'm Lord of Nan Elmoth. Irony perhaps. Or punshiment, depends on how you want to see it." Harsh and hollow is Eöl's answer. Truth stings even after such a long time because it's a wound that never healed. "I was around your age when my father returned together with his lovely wife and cast my mother aside. She left soon after she made him promise to look after me. Grant me a place among his people at least."

Maeglin wants to hug his father, draw him close until Eöl forgets his doubts but it's not his love that he craves. Instead he gives Eöl the space he needs, doesn't embrace his father because the touch wouldn't be welcome right now. 

"I'm surprised he allowed you to leave," he murmurs instead. "Doriath doesn't allow it's citizens the freedom to travel as they please."

Just another difference which earned the Sindar just wide-eyed confusion when they presented the Highking the request to live somewhere specific for the first time. Apparently the Noldor don't give a crap where you settle as long as you get along with your neighbours and aren't the only healer around. In Doriath on the other hand there is no greater honor than being leaving the girdle and being allowed to return after your journey is done. Travel is a luxury very few have ever experienced. At least among Thingol's folk. thanks to Fëanor the Noldor have long grown used to it. 

"He was glad to see me gone when I finally made the request. Maybe I'm Lord of Nan Elmoth outside of Doriath but in his court that title doesn't hold much power," Eöl only shrugs when he answers. "If you wish to hear my opinion then Thingol never quite knew what to do with his bastard son." 

The last sentence is quiet and almost, almost fools Maeglin that the indifference in his father's voice is anything but a false act. But then Eöl had a lot of time to practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how much of a surprise it truly is. That Eöl is related to Thingol is a fact. Probable is that he's the son of Elmo who ironically died in Nan Elmoth when he searched for his brother. In some darker headcanons I think Melian got rid of him because she didn't wish to have her 300year long date to be interrupted but here at least Melian isn't a creep. It's just Thingol being an asshole. Credit for this particular headcanon goes to inkstranger. Saw the theory on tumblr and just went with it. So no, in this story neither Eöl nor Maeglin have Maia powers but I think it would explain a lot if it was the case in the books. Perhaps Eöl is the product of the 300 year long rape date and Thingol just ignored or forgot about him, because Eöl didn't fit into his brainwashed fairytale. 
> 
> Still, its a clusterfuck. One glorious clusterfuck.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've long wondered how the Avari call themselves. Because the refusers doesn't truly fit. It's just a description of what they didn't do, compared to the rest. It doesn't describe what they are, how they define themselves. Thanks to elfdict.com I finally settled on Lainedhil, the free Elves. Fits well enough in my eyes.

In the end what bothers Maeglin the most is that nothing comes of their nightly conversation. Eöl opens up a little and talks about Doriath, not just to him but to everyone. Talks to them about customs, songs and other things that make up their society. In Maeglin's opinion Doriath must be a little like Aman. Or Gondolin. Constricting above all other things. But Eöl says nothing about Thingol himself - or what he presents. Nothing about their time together. Eöl's silences whenever Maeglin tries to breach the subject is telling enough and not even brushes with oswanë help. Maeglin gets glimpses, impressions. That's it. 

"It doesn't matter," Eöl says, ending the discussion. "The past is gone and I've little intention of reliving it. Nothing can force me to go back into that forest and neither should you, if you can avoid it. They wouldn't be kind to you." 

Maeglin appreciates the advice and doesn't mention Thingol again because after a few days brooding about it he realizes that Eöl is right. There's nothing what he can do. He has a family. People who love him. Friends and loyal followers. His entire existence is defined and Thingol's blood in his ways is secondary to that. Eöl managed to cut that bastard from his life so Maeglin honors that decision.

Besides ... what use is a King in a sandcastle?

 

-

 

Reaching Himlad feels like a rebirth. For the first time in weeks the sun breaks through the clouds and while the days are still cold Maeglin appreciates the fresh air the winds brings blows from the east. The smell of fresh grass hits his nose and Maeglin halts his horse to appreciate the scenery. There's nothing but grass and sky in front of him. An endless sea of green blades dancing in the wind. To his surprise Lómion finds his heart beating fast and hard against his chest.

_This is what freedom looks like,_ he thinks. _This is what mother fell in love with._

The thought of just letting go, letting his horse run until either of them are out of breath takes hold of Maeglin. The desire is so strong that the ferocity of it makes him gasp. His body tingles as he fights down the sensation and tries get his body back under his control again. The wind caressing his skin makes it extra difficult. It tears at his black hair, pulls out strands from his blade and his horse is dancing, eager and straining against Maeglin firm grip on the reigns. 

Eöl laughs when he catches up with his son who still stares at the beauty of Himlad with bright eyes.

"Just go. Head northeast and we'll meet you later," the Sinda says, nods towards the endless hills and sends his son of with the words, "Be back in two days."

Maeglin isn't capable of speaking. He trembles with tension when he takes off, clinging to his horse until they're both nothing more than a fast blurred spot. A few of the company voice their concerns but Eöl waves them off. In a way Himlad is a safer place than Hithlum will ever be, cut off from Morgoth's growing influence. It's no wonder that the roaring need to run wild and free has hit Lómion like a burning arrow. The Noldor are great people and Fingolfin are kind, honest man. But they tend to pour their strength into their work. Eöl has long waited for the day where the other side of his son's heritage made it's presence known.

Morlinna, his own mother was one of the Lainedhil, the free folk. Still is perhaps and Aredhel learned the ways from Celegorm and Oromë. Eöl doesn't have to agree with the Kinslayers but it's undeniable that the Fëanorians haven't forgotten the way of the free elves. Rumors say that Fëanor was born with the same need, passed it onto his sons and roamed Aman in the same manner as the Avari in Beleriand. 

That at least Eöl can approve of wholeheartedly. He has long taken to pouring his strength and his spirit into his work, his blade. It's satisfying enough. Working with metal grants him the same connection and he prefers it to other means. 

Yet Lómion has never known an alternative. Hithlum is heavily populated, signs of civilisation are around every corner. Little wonder that the land of his birth wakes something inside his son upon his return. Eöl sees it as Aredhel welcoming her son back into her arms and he leaves Lómion to himself, let him enjoy the embrace by himself. Lómion obviously has need of it.

The vast open sky is like a smile, like a warm fire crackling in the hearth. It feels like coming home and Eöl is in no hurry to rush the experience. 

 

-

 

Maeglin is armed with a sword and bow. Both fine weapons which he can use as if they're extensions of himself. Yet when the sun sets in the late afternoon and colors the world in all different kinds of red he only uses his knife to kill the first Orc he encounters. One single slash across the throat and the creature is down, falling to the ground and Maeglin rides on with a wide mad smile on his face. 

Darkness engulfs the land but sleep is very, very far away. Himlad has taken to him like nothing else ever has. The prince stalks the land, silent and hungry until the moon hides its face from the golden sun peaking over the horizon. Finger dig into the wet dark earth as they search for roots to eat and Maeglin forgets why he's come here in the first place. 

Instead Maeglin runs, lives and kills until he's covered from head to toe in dirt. 

 

-

 

Nearly five days later Eöl regrets letting his son run loose. He and the company have reached the Fëanorian stronghold and its citizens have made a great fanfare of it of welcoming them. Bright colors and flags are everywhere. Children run through the streets, excited because of the upcoming festival. Members from various races alike prepare to celebrate the coming of spring and there are pictures of reunited families embracing everywhere.

The only one missing is his son.

"I apologize for my son's tardiness," Eöl sighs as he joins Lord Curufin. "It's not like him to be late. I suspect he forgot to remember the purpose of our journey but it's the first time for him to return to the land he was born in."

Well, theoretically Lómion was born in Nan Elmoth but for the blood raging through his veins the difference doesn't matter. It's not as if Eöl worries for his son, Maeglin is capable of defending himself. It's just a little embarrassing. 

Yet Curufin seems to understand perfectly for he offers Eöl a wry smile and says, "Oh, don't fear. My own brother is still out there, crawling through the mud to follow some obscure trail without a doubt. I know very well how that is. We've long gotten used that Celegorm comes and goes as he pleases." 

Eöl only mutters under his breath but he's relieved that the Fëanorian doesn't take offense. "It's just very unlike him. Back in Hithlum Lómion is known for being reliable." 

Curufin ushers Eöl inside, offers him food and drink before he says, "Yet it's very like his mother. Irissë often turned up late as well. Let you son follow her footsteps for a while. It's not like we'll run out of subjects to talk about." 

With these words Eöl gets drawn into a conversation about blades, metal and iron. Hours go by before he even realizes how easy the Fëanorian is to talk to. Books appear and someone brings ink and paper. Eöl ends up arguing passionately with Curufin, long into the night and the only thing keeping them company are candles slowly burning out. Even the servants have gone to bed yet it doesn't occur to either of them to find some sleep themselves. 

 

-

 

It takes a few days for the missing family members to show up. Eöl and Curufin have fallen into a comfortable pace, discussing trade contracts and official business during the day and forge work during the night. It surprises neither of them that Celegorm and Maeglin actually show up together. Eöl raises an eyebrow when he spots the dark happy mess made of dirt, blood and magic that is his son. Power thrums through him, loosened by the moonlight maeglin has been sleeping under.

Eöl takes comfort in the fact that Lord Celegorm doesn't look much better. The only difference is the famous grey pale hair that makes Eöl wonder if Queen Míriel carried Teleri blood as well. Given how her descendants have inherited the untamed love Círdan's people show towards the sea it wouldn't surprise him.

"Curvo, what look I've found," Celegorm hollers and drags Maeglin to his brother, one arms slung over his shoulder. "It's Irissë's son. Just look at him."

"I'm not surprised you stumbled over each other," Curufin answers and by now Eöl can judge the Fëanorian well enough to hear the amusement in his voice, despite his stern expression. "But please would go and take a bath? I'd like to eat dinner without having to wonder the smell of blood hitting my nose every time I take a breath."

Celegorm just scoffs. The movement of his head makes his braid unravel, lets the grey hair spill over the muscled back and crossed arms.

"Big words from someone who spends so much time in the forge that he can't even notice it when the own hair is smoking," he says with a smirk. 

Given Curufin's groan Eöl can guess that this is an old argument. He finds it fascinating since neither he nor Maeglin ever had siblings. Nor anyone close enough they could count as such. For no matter how well Maeglin gets along with the Elves around his age he'll always be a Prince of the Noldor. He's Fingolfin's only grandson and it's impossible to forget. The Fëanorians are being polite about it but their short conversation showed that they too noticed Maeglin's resemblance to his mother. To Fingolfin. Their features are frightening alike.   

"Come one, cousin," Celegorm now says and turns his full attention to Maeglin again. "Let's do Curvo the favor and take a bath." 

"It'd be rude of me to offend the nose of my host," Lómion responds with a playful grin. "Show the way and we'll rinse of the dirt in the manner of good men returning from honest work." 

Lord Celegorm laughs and the sound is warm, full and loud. He tugs at Maeglin's sleeve and they leave together. Eöl watches them. It's difficult to say how long they already now each other - or how close they've grown in the short time. Perhaps they met just outside the gates. Or did they spend nights under the open sky huddled close? What's obvious that they're at ease in each others company. Still talking in low whispers and the echo of their voices carries on long after they've vanished into the back of the house.

Only then it strikes Eöl that he just met the man Aredhel once loved. She and the Son of Fëanor were longer lovers than Eöl had ever the chance to. And while she choose him, became _his_ wife Eöl knows that Aredhel still had a soft spot for Celegorm in her heart. Having finally met him he understand why. They're a lot alike, Celegorm and his beloved dead wife. They possess the same kind of longing for freedom. Possesses the same desire that just drove Maeglin into the wild for a solid week. 

A part of him wonders why he's not going mad with belated jealousy. He'd have, before. Never liked it when his wife spoke of Celegorm in particular because her voice always turned a little sad when she did. Now, years later Eöl thinks it was homesickness, missing her best friend. 

Eöl admits that his ease with the Fëanorians comes from Fingolfin. The Highking of the Noldor is an extraordinary person with incredible patience. Someone who acts on what's best for his people and not out of personal ambitions. He doesn't hate the children of his brother no matter what transpired between them. Eöl has witnessed himself how much Fingolfin respects Maedhros - an Elf Eöl has yet to meet. But according to Fingon he's just as wise as his uncle. 

_I don't have to like them,_ he thinks. _But I can live among them for a short year. It's not as if I'll never go home again._

For there's no denying anymore that Hithlum is his home now. A strange feeling but not unwelcome. Eöl hadn't a true home for ages. Thingol never managed to endear Doriath to him. But then ... until he brought his infant son before the Highking of the Noldor he had never known that alternatives existed. The joy of having a family. 

Eöl smiles and leans back in his chair, in one hand a glass of wine and in the other another one of Curufin's outrages theories. 

 

-

 

Maeglin sleeps uneasy the next night. The bed is too soft and his dreams too restless. The last days are still stuck in his head. The smell of grass, dirt and a warm body follows him into his dreams. He's running, running barefoot over the ground. Enjoying the power cruising through his veins. He knows Celegorm is behind him, grinning just as wide as he is. But it's not just them. Maeglin knows that he's not alone. There's someone else. 

He laughs, excited when he wins the race but the sound that leaves his throat is not his own. The voice belongs to a woman. 

_Mother,_ Maeglin calls out the one word he never used before. He feels arms wrapping him in an embrace, hugging him tight. _Mother._

Impossible to deny who it is who hugs him. He might not have memories of her beyond what he has seen in his father's, in his uncle's and grandfather's mind but he knows her. Something recognizes the woman who's holding him. 

_My son, my son, my son,_ she sings. _My dear son. I love you._

Just as when Maeglin wants to turn around and look into her face he wakes up. Wakes up to the strange room. The sheets tangle around his feet while the moonlight shines through the window. He lays there for hours, savoring the images. Intent not to lose the dream just yet. Instead he holds on a little longer, a little tighter. Always with the words still dancing through his mind. 

It feels like a song. A lullaby. Maeglin closes his eyes again. 

_My son. My son. My son,_ Aredhel sings and rocks her son back to sleep. 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter Nine

The impression of his mother following him stays with Maeglin the next days. He can't shake the feeling. Perhaps it's just the cold, winter trying to hold the spring off as long as he can, but a chill dances over his skin every now and then. More than once Maeglin's eyes are drawn to the gate and he can't help but think someone is waiting out there. As much as he tries to forget it and focus on more important tasks, he's distracted enough that someone is bound to notice. 

It's not a surprise that it's Celegorm who breaches the subject. 

"I think you should ride out tomorrow," the Fëanorian says softly when he steps outside and joins Maeglin one evening. Together they watch the moon rise, in easy comfortable silence. 

"I'm fine," Maeglin tries to dissuade though the tension between his shoulders is unmistakable. "I've duties here. There's no time to take a leisure stroll through the woods. Your brother arrives soon." 

After their arrival word had been send out to the remaining Fëanorians. While Maeglin intended to visit Himring at least once, the first gathering would be held here in Himlad. 

"Exactly." Celegorm's voice is that of a teacher, patient but insistent. "You need to clear your head before Nelyo gets here. Later you'll have little time for yourself. I've seen your work. You can be glad if my brother lets you out of his sight before the year is out."

They fall into silence again. Maeglin crosses the arms over his chest while he leans against a pillar. The balcony of their guest house provides a specular view over the city ... and over Himlad. The sky is free of clouds, just like the night he met Celegorm. Here the stars are like a sea of lights on a dark ocean. It's different than back in Hithlum. The entire nothern region is often covered in clouds and it's rare to have a day where the sun shines unhindered by fog, clouds or smoke rising to the sky. 

Here every night is a clear one. The horizon is so vast that Maeglin could drown in it.

There's a hand on his shoulder, heavy enough to ground him in realty yet so gentle and understanding that Maeglin's knees threaten to give out under him.

"That's not what I meant, Lómion." For the first time Celegorm uses his mother name. It rolls from his tongue like honey. "I want you to visit your mother's resting place."

Maeglin inhales, sharp and unsure how he's supposed to react to that.

He's an adult and while he had to grow up without his mother his life is a good one. Full of people who love him, give him warmth and care about his wellbeing. He has no reason to grieve. How can he mourn someone he never met? 

"Shh, it's alright. You're allowed to mourn her. She was your mother, Lómion," Celegorm whispers and draws him into a tight embrace. Only now Maeglin notices how badly his hands are shaking. "There's nothing wrong about missing her no matter if you remember her or not. She carried you beneath her heart. That's an entire year you spend together." 

If Maeglin sobs at the words and turns around to bury his head in Celegorm's chest than no one is around to witness it. 

 

-

 

It takes three days for Maeglin to make up his mind. Days he spends alone in the forge and he's surrounded by enough understanding people who leave him alone for the time being. Yet in the end Maeglin asks the question that's been plaguing him. Again it's during an evening, right before they're heading to bed. Eöl is bend over a book, enraptured by the material so it takes his son a while to get his attention.

"What did you just say?" Eöl asks. "Sorry, I wasn't listening. This is one of books Fëanor has written himself and I must say that's a tragedy such a bright mind was taken from us so early."

Maeglin angles his head, a habit he only shows when he's uncomfortable ... or ashamed.

"I want to visit Nan Elmoth. It's the only chance I might get," he says and bends his head to avoid seeing his father's reaction. With a lower voice Maeglin adds, "You don't have to come with me, if it's too painful. I'm sure I can navigate through the forest just fine."

Eöl's chest tightened. "No need, my son. I'd be pleased to make this journey with you."

The Sinda watches as Maeglin uttered his thanks and then vanished into his room. With a sigh Eöl picke up his book again. To be honest ... the request wasn't a surprise. Of course his son wished to meet his mother and Eöl would gladly face his own demons to make that happen. 

 

-

 

To their surprise the Fëanorians are very understanding. Even Lord Curufin only shrugged and rescheduled a few meetings and discussions that had been planned for the next week. Eöl wonders why they were taking the sudden request with such a good grace until he remembered that grew up in a familiar situation. Fëanor's own mother Míriel died shortly after giving birth to her son. 

Eöl doesn't comment on it, only nods gratefully when Curufin tells them to take as much time as they needed. 

The only surprise is their companion. 

A red-headed Elf waits for them at the gates, dressed for travel but the sword at his hip indicated that he is prepared in case they get in trouble on their way. Eöl raises an eyebrow at this. He is native in this land, do the Fëanorian's expect he'd have trouble finding the home he inhabited for more than thousand years. 

But the surprise on Maeglin's face and the smile that follows tells Eöl that this isn't just a guide. 

"Celebrimbor," his son calls out and for a moment the sullen mood of the last days vanishes to be replaced by honest, giddy joy. "I wondered why you kept me waiting for so long. It's been too long since we last saw each other."

Eöl takes a moment to study Celebrimbor and the longer he stares the more he can see resemblance to his father. Had Curufin's son inherited his father's hair he'd have made the connection earlier. Still, the relation is undeniable. It's exactly the same face, only a little younger. If it weren't for the hair Celebrimbor could easily pass as Lord Curufin's twin.

The realization makes Eöl glad that Maeglin isn't an exact copy of his mother.   

His son and the Fëanorian fall into a hug - somehow managing it without falling of their horses. 

"I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you but father likes me to play messenger between my many uncles," Celebrimbor apologizes. "It took my a while to get back."

After a moment of silence he adds, "Stars, you've gotten tall. It's been decades since we last saw each other."

"How did you two meet?" Eöl joins in.

The idea of having company when they're visiting Ardhel's grave doesn't sit well with him but for Lord Curufin's son he could make an exception. 

To his surprise Maeglin coughs instead of answering the question and Celebrimbor's face acquires the color of his hair. 

 "In Minas Tirith," the Fëanorian answers a little too quickly. "I was there on father's behalf and Orodreth didn't introduce us, exactly." 

"We met in a tavern. Over a shouting match that quickly turned into a ... ah, a brawl," Maeglin finishes the story. 

Both boys pretend that there's nothing more to be told and ride ahead. Eöl spends the next hours contemplating if he should investigate further. That little tale is either completely false or heavily edited. Starting out with the fact what his son was doing _alone_ in a _tavern._ But he lets it slide. It's probably for the best if he doesn't learn what these two had been up. They get along, this much is clear.

Eöl is aware that Maeglin and Celebrimbor had been exchanging letters during the last decades. It shows that they've known each other for a while because they fall into a pace like old friends. Which means it's probably for the best if he doesn't know what they've been up to. There are a times when a parent is better off not knowing what kind of trouble his child got into. 

_-_

 

Celebrimbor's presence is enough to distract Maeglin for a while. The Fëanorian knows what he's doing and stirs most conversations to safe waters. Sometimes he just fills the hours by talking about the dwarven cities. Celebrimbor describes Nogrod and Belegost in such detail that Maeglin can almost see the magnificent stone work right before his eyes.

Only when a dark shade appears on the horizon, looming in the distance like a promise Celebrimbor halts his horse. 

"I'll not go further," he says. "The last part of your journey belongs to you two alone and I refuse to intrude."

Maeglin nods. He's glad for his friends discreteness. He wouldn't know how to act if Celebrimbor came with them now. 

"We'll be back in two days," Eöl says and thanks Celebrimbor for the company. 

Curufin's son nods. "Until then I'll no longer be alone. My uncles will shortly arrive, one of the reason why father asked me to ride with you. I'm supposed to meet Ambarussa near the river." 

Eöl appreciates the warning. Of course there'll be more Fëanorians in the future but so far it went better than he thought it would. 

 

-

 

As soon as they cross the Celon Maeglin knows that something is wrong. A presence weights heavily on his mind. Nothing human. It's not even sentient but _aware_ enough to cause trouble. The sensation is new to him. Even the wild hunt under stars can't compare. Himlad is ... clean and only welcomed him. Nan Elmoth in the other hand ... if Maeglin had to name it, it's a lot like his father. 

Lonely, brooding and unhappy. Troubled by the past. 

The tree hide the scars but Maeglin feels that this forest had been hurt. 

"Is it sick?" Maeglin asks when they walk down a narrow path.

He's not afraid, just cautious and while the sun doesn't reach the ground there are still a lot of colours to be found. Flowers in shimmering red, moss that is more blue than green. A yellow stream that carries white smooth rocks. If the reason wouldn't be such a sad one Maeglin wouldn't mind exploring Nan Elmoth a little. 

"No, it's not. Though forests tend to get invested by shadows and death if you're not watchful, Nan Elmoth doesn't suffer from Morgoth influence," Eöl explains. Despite the turmoil he must feel, the Sinda looks calm. "Here I always suspected it's Melian's influence that changed Nan Elmoth."

Since they're getting closer towards the center where Eöl once build his house Maeglin keeps up the conversation. 

"How does that work?" he asks. He can't imagine Maia being this powerful. 

"If my theories are correct then she appeared before Thingol in her true form. Usually Maia create themselves a body - out of leaves, the earth or water," Eöl explains. It's been a long time ago but he was born before the Noldor left for Aman. He remembers Oromë though only distantly. "Since she stayed in this forest without any disguise cast upon her person it ... changed the environment."

Strange. That's Maeglin's conclusion of the conversation when father and son fall into silence again. He'd expect a different result if a Maia's true form caused the strangeness of Nan Elmoth. On the other hand ... until now he always imagined Maia and the Valar as glowing lights. As beacons in the night. But ... if Maeglin takes the forest in front of him and the rumor how close Melian is to nightingales.

Suddenly Melian shrinks in his mind. From a towering Queen to a small brown bird. Unremarkable and with black piercing eyes.

It eases his concerns a little, to be related to such a creature - though thankfully not by blood. He has enough trouble coming to terms with being Thingol's grandson. Less because of Elf himself. Maeglin isn't really impressed by what little he knows about him. It's rather the political fallout which worries him. Doriath is a sore subject among many and unlike his father he's far more prominent.

It makes him sick just to imagine how the majority of the Noldor would react to such news. Or the Fëanorians and their people. 

Maeglin knows it will be difficult enough to gain support regarding Fingolfin's decision to make him heir to the crown. All these people originally had a greater right to Finwë's position than him. Hell, even Celebrimbor should ... or could've been of far higher standing than him. Had history gone down differently his father's royal blood would've been far more worth than that of his mother. 

_It's a nightmare,_ Maeglin thinks when they finally reach the abandoned home. 

He pushes the thoughts far away because his mother's grave is not the appreciate location for such dark thoughts.

 

-

 

They don't enter the house. The door remains shut. Ranks have sealed them over the years and neither of them has the heart to cut through the canopy. The forest has almost swallowed the house. Young trees have burst through windows, the roof is cover in strange flowers and there are traces of a mountain lion using Eöl's former home as place to raise its cubs in safety.

Father and son settle into the wet grass, each lost in thought. Neither of them speaks a word. Whatever they've to say to mother and wife, they do so in private.  

At some point Maeglin gets up and leaves his father alone. There are few things that should remain between his parents. When he leaves he sees the silent tears streaming down Eöl's face, mostly hidden in the sleeves of his coat. As much as it troubles it Lómion knows better than to offer words of comfort. There're none he can give. If his father wants peace he must find it on his own. 

Maeglin keeps walking until the forest is behind him. He doesn't look back, knowing he'll never return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Celebrimbor has red hair is a thing I recently discovered. I love him with silver hair, making him look like Míriel. Just as with black hair, making Celebrimbor an exact copy of Curufin and Fëanor. That alone is fic worthy enough. But red ... like Nerdanel's? That kind of interested me as well. So here Celebrimbor has red hair. Take it as a sign that father and son have a good relationship with each other ... no daddy issues in sight. Because we have Eöl for that. 
> 
> I've also created [a family tree](https://s23.postimg.org/ysav2wbkr/Maeglin_Family_tree.jpg) to make things a little easier.


	10. Chapter Ten

Eöl steps into the forge and ducks his head in order not to hit his head on the frame. Most of the buildings the Noldor build accommodate his height which he inherited from his father but Curufin's workshop carters to his own needs. Since the Fëanorian is considerably smaller than him Eöl suffers through the indignity. Experience taught him how painful it can be to work daily in an environment that's not made for your own size. It's likely that Curufin gets along better than him with Khazad for this exact reason.  

"Have you seen my son?" Eöl asks. He stays near the entrance, out of the way from the sparks flying everywhere. 

Curufin lifts his head and his eyes reflect surprise - and catches the red color of the fire he's working with. "Is he missing?" 

"Not really," Eöl answers with a shrug. "I've caught glimpses of him. He comes back to change his clothes and sometimes he even sleeps in his own bed, but in the last four weeks we haven't exchanged more than a dozen sentences." 

It irks Eöl a little. Aredhel could be like this, running around in Nan Elmoth exploring herbs, plants and rocks. Sometimes Eöl lost track of the time and forgot he had a wife at all. That Lómion is showing the same habit now makes him afraid - if his son even needs him anymore. 

Curufin's laugh rings through the room. "Let him be. I know that he spends a lot of his time with my brothers, and for once my son joined their hunting party. Usually he detests it to stay on horse back any longer than he has to. But Maeglin's enthusiasm is infectious."

Eöl grumbles. In Hithlum he never cares how long they go on separate ways. Thanks to Fingolfin they're bound to meet sooner or later. But perhaps it's the change of scenery that calls forth all the doubts he buried. He's difficult not to notice how much Maeglin loves the lifestyle the Fëanorians covet. Besides their realm is far larger than than Hithlum. Mithrim and Dor-Lómin could easily fit into Himlad. When they arrived he hated the Fëanorians for claiming so much land for themselves. 

Over time he mellowed a bit. He has seen for himself that the Fëanorians only try to provide safety and let the inhabitants alone whenever they can. But their success speaks for their great work. How else had the red-haired twins managed to settle down in Amon Ereb, a place the Nandor claimed for themselves after their buried their King on that hill? 

It hurts to admit, but living among the Fëanorians and their people is overwhelming in a way Hithlum never managed to be. 

"Come along," Curufin puts his work down. "I must prepare Maedhros' and Maglor's arrival. Surely we can manage to rope our wayward relatives into it."

 

-

 

Maeglin never had siblings. Nor any cousins to speak of - those hiding in Gondolin don't count. And if he's honest and compares Hithlum to the two months he experienced among the Fëanorians he wonders if he ever had friends before. Certainly not those like Celegorm, Telpe and the Ambarussa. Maeglin barely notices how time flies by. He's always in the company of one or another. Celebrimbor drags him over the market, introduces him to different people. The twins take him out hunting, turn little task into a challenge. They needle him, mock him, get him into pillow fights and tickle wars.

It's also a little frightening how _many_ dirty jokes they know. Maeglin refuses to repeat any of those aloud - or at least not in front of his father or his grandfather. No, Eöl would be mortified. Maeglin isn't going to do that to him. He just hopes he can keep a straight face when he sees Fingolfin again. Apparently a lot of the _fucking dick_ jokes had been invented by his mother. 

Seriously, Maeglin could've lived without the knowledge but on the other hand it's nice to meet people who speak so freely and open about her. 

And then there's Celegorm. 

At first Maeglin took him for the type who is always smiling, always in for a joke and a good prank. But that's the twins. No, after he returned from Nan Elmoth Celegorm dragged him into the yard where the soldiers absolve training, took his sword in an unguarded moment and handed him a staff instead. 

"Defend yourself," he was told and Maeglin witnessed how the Fëanorian turned from a oversized puppy into a predator. 

Currently Maeglin is kneeling in the sand, panting as if it's his first time on the battlefield and clutches the handle of his weapon. After a week full of bruises he has worked his way up to a real dagger, not just a practice weapon. Not that it helps much. Celegorm is a terrifying opponent. One who has wields every weapon like extension of himself, seems to fly over hindrances or bridges incredible distances with a single jump. When Maeglin has the time he studies the movements, in the short periods where Celegorm's focus is elsewhere of Maeglin is actually capable of holding his ground. 

"Get up," Celegorm commands and Maeglin grinds his teeth. 

But he doesn't complain and ignores his burning muscles. Of course he knows what Celegorm is doing. He's training him, starting with the very basics. Maeglin always thought himself a good warrior but the style the Fëanorians use so much different than the knights practice in Barad Eithel. By now Maeglin is convinced it's also far more effective. Compared to the warriors here the knights back home are novices. Every hit strikes home, meets one of the critical points and there's no holding back. 

Celegorm, his hunters, everyone is using their full strength. They aren't afraid and don't shy away from pain. Instead they place trust in their companions, expect them to stop the attack before it finds the mark.

Maeglin lifts his dagger, filled with determination. He's not going to lose this time. If he goes down - and he probably will, he ate sand so very often in the last days - he's going to take Celegorm with him. It's something he needs to proof. To himself and to his newfound teacher. Never before Maeglin was driving by the urge to make a person _proud._ His father may be a stern man yet he never lacked words when it came to telling Maeglin when he did well. His uncle and his grandfather ... well, they are family. Of course they love him.

Celegorm on the other hand is _different._ The Fëanorian is the best fighter he's ever seen ... and Maeglin wants to earn his respect. He just has to.   

"Do your worst," he hisses and ignores the strand of his black hair falling into his face. 

"Oh, trust me, Lómion. I certainly will," Celegorm smirks and moves barely an inch but it's enough to distract Irissë's son as the sun hits his eyes for just a moment. "I'm going to make you regret the days you were born." 

Celegorm lunges and both warriors blur, moving too fast that many of the spectators have trouble following their movements. 

 

- 

 

"Ow," Maeglin complains as he hobbles to the bathing tube. "I hate you so much." 

"You're one to talk," Celegorm says as he inspects one deep gash on his right arm. It's bleeding freely and the towel the Fëanorian presses against the wound is soaked with blood. "You're going to be fine after two days of taking it easy. I'm going to carry the mark of my dishonor for the rest of my life." 

"It's your own fault " Maeglin's expression turns into a playful haughty sneer. "Do you really thought I'd surrender just because you had me pinned to the ground? Be faster next time." 

"Are you calling me _old?"_ Celegorm raises his eyebrows in truly comical manner. For a moment Maeglin fear he might offended the Fëanorian, but then he sees how the older Elf fights a grin. 

"Ancient, old man," Maeglin responses. "You're ancient. I've seen mortals with a walking stick move faster than you." 

What follows is a war cry and a very ugly battle fought with wet towels. Since Celegorm is still bleeding and Maeglin not the fastest due to his aching muscles, the bathroom looks like blood bath when Celebrimbor sticks his head in to see where the noisy is coming from. 

"I'm not cleaning that up," is his only comment and closes the door. 

It takes the pair an awful long time go come out again. 

 

-

 

Since the temperatures had dropped again most gathered in the great hall tonight. By now the novelty of having guests had calmed down and Maeglin counted among the few who were still awake. Despite the hard physical work he has trouble finding sleep. His body got used to the constant strain in the last days, one of the many benefits he reaps thanks to the training. But that wasn't just it, not completely. While has always been the type to live through the night, something he inherited from his father, there're also a few matters pressing on his conscience.    

Thingol is one of them. Despite his father's silence can't help but brood on the subject. They may wish otherwise, but as Fingolfin's heir he had to expect to come in contact with them sooner or later. His uncle Fingon is far too busy to worry over such things. But he had been born in Beleriand. For him Doriath is much closer in mind than for most of the other Noldor - who are used to doing the grunt work themselves. While it'd be nice to get rid of Morgoth one day ... Maeglin knows it'll never be easy. Nor it will come without a cost. The last years had been peaceful, yes. 

_But how long will it last?_ Maeglin thinks. _We need to be careful._

As soon as he was back, he would train the knights in Fingolfin's court. Celegorm had shown him the differences in their strengths. Maeglin always considered himself one of the best, he worked hard to keep up with the older knights. Yet against Celegorm none would've stood a chance. 

This had to change. Maeglin refused to loose any of his men and if they had to bleed before they could learn how to survive ... so it be. 

The thoughts kept him from worrying over Doriath ... and his other grandfather. From Eöl he learned that Thingol had fostered him in his youth. After he verbally flogged Morlinna for giving birth to a child and claiming it was his. Understandable that his paternal grandmother had been furious, especially since the relation was rather obvious. Or so Maeglin had been told. His father and Thingol are both very tall and possessed the same shade of silver hair - not to mention the same features. In part Maeglin is glad that he inherited much of his mother's blood. Or else he'd search for traces of Thingol in his face and probably feel ashamed to be related to the likes of him.  

And yet ... to live his entire life without having met him? Curiosity is the fuel of any craftsman and Maeglin can't lie and claim that he wishes to experience the life in Doriath.

Just once. 

_I've more relatives there than just Thingol_ , Maeglin reminds himself. _Hadn't he another brother besides Olwë? Elmo was his name, if I remember correctly._

With a groan Maeglin buries his face inside his hands, realizing that he's now related to almost _everyone._ For Olwë's daugther had married Finarfin. He's know related twice to the Angrod, Aegnor and the rest of the family. By now it would be increasingly difficult to find someone he doesn't share blood with. Which also meant he had to be careful. The subject of marrying close kin is a difficult one.

The Noldor care little about sexual practices as long as the parties involved give their consent and don't bother anyone else with it. But children always have been an entire different subject. Having a child is the ultimate sign of a marriage, because it ties two souls together for all eternity. Without his own existence as proof Fingolfin wouldn't have treated Eöl as anything more than Aredhel's lover, no matter how deep their feelings. 

Yet even that's worlds better than what Eöl lived through in Doriath. Treated as minor noble, because the relation quickly became obvious to anyone Eöl attended to Thingol's court, but never received a warm welcome. In part because the King of the Sindar just returned from the dead with a magical Queen in tow and everyone followed his direction. People who treated Eöl with kindness before, changed their minds and ignored his father. 

Who had been roughly the age Maeglin is right now. 

Clenching his fists Maeglin took a deep breath and tried to let anger go. As Fingolfin's grandson he couldn't affort to hate every Sindar, just because a few of them mistreated his father three thousand years ago. 

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" Someone interrupts Maeglin's thoughts and when the prince lifts his head he spots Celegorm at the end of the all. "I've no compunctions of throwing you out of bed at sunrise no matter if you got enough rest or not." 

"Yeah, I know," Maeglin sighs. Out of all people Celegorm may be the worst to come across him now. "I'm prepared to suffer the consequences, but I need a little bit time for myself." 

The Fëanorian watches him for a moment, grey eyes holding his gaze without flinching. Then he nods.

"You know, where can find me," Celegorm says and turns around, Huan trailing behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact is that the Fëanorian's are far better warriors. They survived the N.A. intact, while everyone else suffered heavy losses. I assume the Fëanorians are far more dictated to their training. I guess in the worst case the power difference is like comparing a Seal/Marine to a police officer? Mostly because Fingolfin won the first battle when he came to Beleriand (Argon's death aside) and the Fëanorians suffered a heavy loss (read: Fëanor)? 
> 
> P.S. Next Chapter might take a while. I'm dealing with some health issues. Nothing serious, don't worry. Just annoying and time consuming.


End file.
